


It's Weird, But He's Close, And You Like It

by NeedMoreCyanInk



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon Universe, Cuddles, Fluff, Jean being a weenie, Kisses, M/M, POV Second Person, Present Tense, also Marco's tragic death, boys macking in the stables, but mostly just nice fluff, crappy handjobs, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeedMoreCyanInk/pseuds/NeedMoreCyanInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATING THIS AND WRITING MULTIPLE PARTS BECAUSE I AM ENJOYING WRITING IT<br/>Previously titled: 'The Second Time You Shiver, It's Not Because You're Cold'</p><p>Following the story of Jean and Marco as they fumble their way through feelings for one another.</p><p>'You wake up shivering.<br/>Squinting, you make out the form of your friend Marco in the bunk to your left, one half of his freckled face shrouded in darkness and the other lit up with a gentle glow of silver. Despite his baby face, broad forehead and dumb-ass haircut, you think he looks quite pretty in the moonlight. He looks peaceful.<br/>You stumble out of bed and shake him vigorously by the shoulder.<br/>“It’s freezing,” you state. You start to feel like a bit of an idiot waking him up like this but the thought of backing down sort of hurts your pride. “Let me in your bed. Warm me up.”'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Second Time You Shiver, It's Not Because You're Cold

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic for AO3! And my first time using 2nd person POV which was pretty neat, also my first SNK. I know this concept has been done to death but I thought I'd give it a go. Sorry for the horrendous lack of plot. I'm just sorry in general. Can't fuckin' think of decent titles at all, man.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: Omg this is awful why do I even write

You wake up shivering.

You were never expecting it to be this cold. You thought the room full of usually-sweaty teenage bodies would provide sufficient heat but apparently it didn't. Even with the bitter winter raging outside the barracks, coupled with thin walls, thin mattresses and thinner blankets, you still weren't anticipating the shivering. You blink a few times and with a sleep-laced mind, try to guess what time it is. You have no idea, but it’s late enough that even the ones that stay up past lights out are fast asleep. You can tell by the soft snoring. 

You’re cold. Sleepily, you think maybe it would be a good idea to share some body heat with someone. You contemplate sneaking over to the girls’ quarters like some of the older guys did occasionally but the thought of stepping outside makes your toes curl so you pull yourself into a ball instead to try to maintain some heat. It’s fairly useless.

You sit up and look around, using only the chink of pale moonlight filtering weakly though the window to see who is in nearby. Squinting, you make out the form of your friend Marco in the bunk to your left, one half of his freckled face shrouded in darkness and the other lit up with a gentle glow of silver. Despite his baby face, broad forehead and dumb-ass haircut, you think he looks quite pretty in the moonlight. He looks peaceful.

You stumble out of bed and shake him vigorously by the shoulder. The floor is cold so you hop from one foot to the other and hiss his name, kind of hoping desperately that he will wake up and let you into his bed so you don’t have to return to your own cold bed with chilly feet.

“Marco,” you whisper. “Damnit, Marco!” A little louder this time. You shake his shoulder again until he stirs and his big brown baby eyes flicker slowly open. He moans quietly and shoots you a confused look in the half-darkness.  
“Jean…? Whayyawan?”  
“It’s freezing,” you state. You start to feel like a bit of an idiot waking him up like this but the thought of backing down sort of hurts your pride. “Let me in your bed. Warm me up.”  
“Warm you up…?” he says.  
“Yes,” you say.  
“You wanna geddin the bed?” he says. From what you can see, he’s staring at you.  
“Yes,” you say. You’re regaining proper consciousness at an alarming rate and you’re beginning to feel pretty stupid. This was a dumb idea, why would you even assume he’d just let you sleep with him? Shaking your head, you go to turn away, but he sits up on his elbow and quietly clears his throat.  
“Sure,” he says.  
“What?” you say.  
“Get in,” he says. You’re sure he’s biting back a smile when he shuffles backward to make room for you and pulls the sheet back. You pause for a moment. “Jean, hurry up, it really is cold.” You’re surprised by how quickly he just does as you ask.  
“Alright,” you say. You’re kind of pleased but you don’t make it obvious.

 

Marco’s sheets are more welcoming than you could have imagined. They don’t smell of that barely-clean must of ‘fresh’ laundry anymore; they smell musky and a little sweaty but sweet and they smell of Marco. Marco smells pretty good, you think.

You crawl into his bed and silently decide that it’s best if you face the same way he is facing to prevent any awkward face bumps. This leaves you tucked into the crook of his body, near-numb feet brushing his shins every so often, but the rest of you swathed in body heat and it’s so surprisingly wonderful that you find yourself smiling when your head hits his pillow. 

“Thanks,” you say, although the word is a bit forced. You don’t like the idea of being in debt to someone. However, he doesn’t seem to notice and just inches close enough so his chest is pressed up to you, so you can feel his heart beating steadily on your back. It’s faster than yours is.  
“No worries,” he says sleepily. His hot breath on the back of your neck sends a shudder over your skin

There’s a weird pang in your stomach. You quickly turn your head and upper body to face the ceiling so he can’t send more breathy words down your spine.

“Cold?” he asks.  
“Yeah,” you mutter. Turning your head is no use because his breath is still dusting over your cheeks and ears and neck, and you’re sure his mouth is now on your face somewhere. It feels strange, but you elect to ignore it. It’s either this or trembling to a freezing death in your bunk over there.  
“Here,” he says. He pulls you in by the waist then lets you go, tucking his arms beside him. Your lower back is pressed into his stomach, and it’s so warm. You hope he is comfortable because you sure are. You don’t tell him this.

Soon you relax, closing your eyes. You kind of hope sleep will come soon, you’ve learnt to cling desperately to as much sleep as you can get – the exhaustion from training can kill a man. Marco’s heat is very soothing though, you find. 

“Your body is warm,” you say, offhandedly as possible.  
“Mm…” he replies. Just ‘mm’. For once, you’re not sure if you said the right thing. Maybe honesty wasn’t the best policy here. What if you creeped him out a bit? You contemplate pulling away from him but you don’t. You wonder if he will push you off eventually, but he doesn’t. You’re kinda relieved about that, because it’s more comfortable than you’d imagined and you can’t deny you’d be pretty disappointed if he shrugged you off. He doesn’t say anything for a while; just lays still, his hot and heavy breath right in your ear. You swear you can feel a smile curling against your temple but you decide you’re getting ahead of yourself and ignore the possibility that Marco is enjoying this half as much as you are. 

 

After some time, he moves a hand from his side to rest on your belly and for second you’re taken by surprise. The soft sound you make in the back of your throat is completely unintentional. Frankly, you’re a little embarrassed but he doesn’t seem to notice. Even if he does notice, he doesn’t mention it. You can feel his fingertips through the material of your shirt, the heel of his palm pressed against your too-bony hip. It feels sort of good. You wonder if it should feel this good.

No-one has touched you like this in a long time. 

Letting your mind wander, you begin to wonder why it’s been so long since you’ve been shown any sort of physical affection. To be honest, it’s not as if the ruthless training regime you’re undertaking leaves much room for personal affairs, but you can’t help but think it would be nice to have a little female attention once in a while. You grit your teeth. Whatever, you think, just whatever. It doesn’t matter that no-one is interested in you. You’re not here for that.

You shuffle under the covers a little more, hiding from the chill and sinking back into Marco’s body. You think his face is too close to yours but you don’t make an effort to move away because you’re pretty tired and fairly comfortable. Maybe it’s nice being in such close proximity with someone after so much rigorous brutality in the day time, what with the drills and the hikes and the 3DMG and the titans… A small pleasure isn’t a bad thing, you tell yourself. If you had your way, though, it would be Mikasa you’d be cuddling up to. You bet she has such smooth skin. You bet her hair smells great. You bet she has really soft lips too, they probably taste amazing. Briefly, you wonder if Marco has smooth skin. You wonder if his hair smells great. You wonder what his lips are like.

Your thoughts quickly dissipate when you feel fingers shift underneath your shirt and gingerly slide across your bare skin. You aren’t expecting this.

“Whoa there,” you breathe – but it’s barely loud enough for even you to hear.  
“You said you wanted me to warm you up,” Marco says. His voice is perfectly innocent, gentle as always. “I-is this not OK?”

You hesitate. Marco’s hand is very warm on your stomach and it’s kind of making your skin tingle. 

“Marco…” you say. Or try to say. It seems your throat has tightened up, you’re not sure why.  
“Sorry, Jean…” he whispers, moving his hand away from your belly to leave a cool trail where his warmth had just been; it makes you feel bizarrely uncomfortable, and before you really know what you’re doing, you fumble for his wrist underneath the sheets and pull it back so his fingers graze your stomach again. You don’t really notice how much you’re shaking.

“No,” you say and immediately recognise that the phrase alone sounds insufficient. “N-no, it’s OK…” He sighs softly in your ear, maybe laughing a little – you can’t tell.  
“I thought with the skin contact…”  
“It’s fine,” you cut in. “I don’t care.” The words come out wrong and blunt. It’s not that you don’t care – it’s more that you don’t mind. Marco’s hand slips further up your chest and you kinda have to force yourself to breath normally. You’re not sure how, but his other hand has wormed underneath you and up to your sternum too, and now both of his hands are just resting there across your heart. His face is buried against you. You’re starting to think this is getting pretty weird and you’re wondering if Marco is just a naturally affectionate person because he seems to be perfectly calm whereas you’re starting to freak out a bit with the way he’s cradling you like the two of you are lovers.

“What’s up?” you whisper. “Are you in love with me?” Marco laughs into your neck and you can feel his chest vibrate against your back.  
“Absolutely,” he jokes. You know it’s not sincere but it makes you blush anyway, you’re glad he can’t see your face.  
“Are you?” you press, the grin too apparent in your voice. He doesn't reply for a while and your smile drops.  
“…Yes,” he says. No laugh this time. You don’t know what that means but it makes you so nervous that you kinda choke a little and change the subject.  
“Let’s get some sleep, yeah?” you say anxiously.  
“Yeah,” he says. Then he grips you tight, squeeze the air out of you a little. You think about telling him to stop, but you don’t, you sort of just lay there. Touch his hand with your fingertips. Let his soft breath drip down your neck and shoulders and back and down your spine because at this point, just being with him feels so good that you don’t care anymore. You’re warm and that’s all you needed, right?

 

You wake up three times in the night – or the early morning, you suppose. The first time it is because Marco is murmuring in his sleep, and he sighs your name and it sounds so weird to hear ‘Jean, Jean…’ in your ear in that throaty barely-whisper that you get the chills. The second time, you wake up to a wet patch on your neck and your first thought is that Marco has been dribbling in his sleep, but it later occurs to you that – if his too-sincere statement from earlier is anything to go by – he might have kissed your skin while you were sleeping. The thought makes your stomach flip, but drifting back into unconsciousness you realise you might be OK with the idea because the drying patch of saliva feels sort of nice.

The third time, the room feels brighter behind closed eyes so it must be later in the morning. You’re certain no-one else is awake because you are vaguely aware of Marco sitting up in the bed and turning to look around, then mumble to himself. Then, you are vaguely aware of him leaning over you, and you feel his hot breath on your cheek… In your sleep-addled state, you don’t anticipate what he does next. And when he does it, you pretend not to know about it despite your surprise. You pretend not to feel his lips press into the corner of your mouth, lightly, as if that, if he does it gently enough, you won’t be conscious of it. You pretend not to feel completely overwhelmed and utterly terrified when he kisses you again – still carefully, still experimentally, you guess – but fully, lips to lips this time. You pretend not to acknowledge the wild tingles in your skin, your beating heart, your flushing cheeks. You pretend you don’t want him to do it lots and lots and you pretend it doesn’t feel amazing and you pretend you don’t want to kiss him back just to see what it feels like. You pretend to remain asleep.

 

By the time everyone else in the barracks wakes up and you pull your groggy head from Marco’s pillow, he’s no longer behind you. You notice he’s slipped into your bed, making for a neat cover-up, presumably so no-one else gets suspicious or anything. Not that they would. Or should have a reason to.

You’re not sure how you feel this morning. Nothing really registers until you bump shoulders with Marco later on and all the warmth from last night comes flooding back at once to burn at your face and back. He shoots you a grin. Pretends nothing has happened. You’re grateful for it, but at the same time not, because he definitely kissed you twice on the mouth while he thought you were asleep and it was strange and you want him to explain himself. It’s made you feel funny.

You think about it a lot.

Marco doesn’t act lonely, but maybe he is, you think; maybe he craves attention and you were just the one to give it to him, wrapped up in his sheets, hands on your bare skin, whispering your name in his sleep, ‘Jean, Jean’... Oh, no doubt his actions were pure-hearted. Everything about Marco is. You decide he was probably just looking for some company; you merely presented him with the opportunity last night. You’re sure you can feel his presence on your skin still. You’re out of focus all day, someone chews you out about it but you don’t remember who. 

You only speak to Marco once during the day, about his gear. He makes a comment about your scary eyes, and you retort with a remark about his pathetic soppy puppy eyes and maybe it sounds mean but you don’t mean it meanly, not really. He laughs his golden laugh and you wonder if you should hold his hand, you think maybe it will be warm.

Later you scold yourself for being so pitiful about the whole situation, letting it torment you, and – still mad that Marco has made you mope all day – decide that you should forget about everything that has happened between you and him in that bed and just focus on what you came here for, to become a soldier. You ignore how much his affection has shaken you up.

 

It’s cold in the barracks again. Cool moonlight lights up one half of Marco’s features. He’s pretty, you think. He’s pretty and he’s a boy and he touched you and kissed you and told you he loved you and suddenly you’re really not sure what to think or what to do. 

You fall asleep shivering.


	2. The Way He Says It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s fine,” you say. “It just feels sort of good to be…”  
> “Close to someone.” He finishes your sentence for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO I decided to write more of this. There's probs gonna be a couple more chapters? Idk, there's still no plot or anything really... Whatever, enjoy! :)

It is driving you mad.

It’s driving you mad because his laugh is so carefree and freaking dumb and it’s been four days – four whole days – since you slept in his bed and he hasn’t said a word to you about it. You’re nothing if not an honest man, you like things out in the open. You can’t keep quiet about things – and Marco Bodt, the boy who placed his stupid, trembling, virgin lips on your stupid, trembling, virgin lips while he thought you were asleep has kept well and truly quiet. 

You’re freezing. You can’t sleep but you wish you could because you’re exhausted. Every muscle every tendon every bone seems to ache these days, and the cold isn’t helping. You do what you do every night now, you look at Marco to check if he is awake (he isn’t) and bite back the need to tuck yourself neatly against his warm body. It’s foolish, really. Ha - you laugh bitterly at yourself. ‘Foolish’. You’ve never been foolish. Cowardly, yes, and selfish too – you know this. But a fool? You’ve never been a fool.

Look at you now though, hankering after some kid who may or may not even be into you. 

You’ve become all too aware of him lately. How his body moves, his thighs, hands. How he rubs his thumb and index finger together nervously in tiny circles before telling you something, how he looks you dead in the eye, unwavering. He grunts from the exertion of training a lot, tiny breathy grunts, when landing shakily after a complicated manoeuvre, or on the last lap of a run that’s drained the energy from everyone– you’ve never noticed them before but it strikes up a weird pang in your belly. You think about jokingly calling him out on it, but you don’t, in the fear that he might stop doing it.

Marco says your name too much. At the end of sentences, when he’s talking to you, he does it a lot. Most trainees don’t bother addressing others by name (only snagging their attention with an ‘oi’ or a ‘hey, asshole’), but Marco calls you by name. And every time he does it makes you shiver, the memory of him muttering it into your neck burning at your ears. He says it right though, with a soft ‘J’ and a breathy ‘ah’ sound. It’s better than ‘John’ or worse, ‘Jeen’.

“Jeen,” you say to yourself, mouthing the word bitterly. You want to hear Marco say your name. You don’t know what the hell your problem is these days, but you can’t sleep at all, you just lie awake with your gut aching. You wonder if you’re ill. Or maybe you’re lonely too, you decide, maybe you think it’s nice to have some human warmth and you’re craving it – even if it is with a male comrade. Maybe it’s only natural to feel like this.

You swing your legs out of bed and stumble across the cold floor to Marco’s bedside again. Screw it.

 

You shake his shoulders and he wakes immediately. With only giving him a long stare and a muted cough, he shuffles back for you to get in. You don’t have to say a word. You hate that you don’t have to say a word.

It starts off the same way as last time – you, scooting down next to him, nervous, feeling the chill leave your skin instantly; him, breathing softly on the back of your neck, his arms carefully locking around your waist this time, not your chest. 

“Hey, Jean,” he whispers, as if you’re meeting up casually for a chat.  
“Hey,” you say.  
“Are you OK?” he asks. He always asks if you’re OK. You can’t decide if it’s overbearing or just considerate. You nod anyway and begin to relax, feeling his heart knock against the back of your ribcage.

It feels so nice and you hate that it feels so nice.

“What have you done to me, Marco?” you murmur. You feel his grip slacken.  
“Huh? I haven’t done anything,” he replies. To your surprise, he sounds suddenly anxious –his breathing becomes strained on your neck and you draw your knees up a little, unsure of what to do now. You didn’t intend to upset him.  
“This, this whole thing,” you mutter.  
“I don’t mean to be blunt, Jean, but you’re the one crawling into my bed in the middle of the night,” he says. His words are heavy and they hit you harder than you were expecting, it’s like a blow to the stomach. He doesn’t say them with spite one bit (he’s Marco after all, Saint Marco, an angel in the flesh with a bad haircut and a pure heart; he is freckled Jesus, he’d never say anything with spite) but you suddenly feel an uncomfortable cold sweat seeping at your neck and clammy palms. Because he’s right. You’re the one doing this, you’re the one doing weird things like creeping under his covers without saying a thing. You screw your face up and swallow the lump in your throat.  
“I know, but…”  
“Don’t you like this?” he says in the smallest voice. You can feel his cheek at the top of your spine, and you wonder how many freckles he has. You’ve seen them a million times but never really registered them. They’re littered all over his face. His cheeks mostly, but the side of his head too, his neck, shoulders, back. You wonder if there are freckles in places you haven’t seen.  
“I do like it,” you mumble. “I like it a lot, and that’s the problem.” Maybe he holds onto you a little tighter here, but you’re not sure. Could just be your imagination.  
“I hope you don’t mind, Jean,” he says. Tiny voice again. You’re not sure what to think. He sounds so vulnerable. You wish you could see his face, but the best you can do under the circumstance is shuffle around completely to your other side in order to come face-to-face with him, even if it’s only a dull outline of his jaw and nose you can make out, rimmed with weak moonlight. This is better for talking though, if you whispered any louder there is the risk of waking the sleeping bodies surrounding you. You’re certain Connie is above your bunk (and he’s a heavy sleeper) but you’re unsure about Marco’s top bunk. It’s not like you’d care what anyone would have to say but your body can’t take any more beating, just for waking someone up.

He has to let go of your waist while you move and you kind of wish he kept hold.

Facing him is weird. His warm, sweet breath is all over your cheeks and nose and you can tell by the heat of his skin that his lips are barely an inch away. You think about him kissing you and try not to breathe too hard. 

“I don’t care,” you say. “I don’t… mind.”  
“Sharing body heat to keep warm is one thing, but I’m sorry about all the cuddling and the touching, Jean.” He says your name in the breathiest way and you kind of want him to say it more. “I guess I was just feeling a bit desperate. You’re my good friend and-” You shake your head and it creates a soft rustling sound on the pillow, interrupting him.  
“It’s fine,” you say. “It just feels sort of good to be…”  
“Close to someone.” He finishes your sentence for you. You nod; more rustling. Neither of you say or move much for a bit. You think he might have closed his eyes by now and part of you is disappointed because you wanted to talk more – but then a tentative hand on your waist pulls you a little closer and a new bout of sparkles fizz through your lower stomach.

“Is this alright?” he asks, it’s barely a murmur and it’s sort of muffled by the pillow.  
“Yeah,” you say. You’re certain this time. You inch into him and you can feel his hip bones press against yours, and you don’t mean to but you grunt a little – only softy, maybe he didn’t hear it – and it’s embarrassing but he feels good right there. You’re not sure if this is wrong, or if it should feel wrong, but it doesn’t. He buries his head into the crook of your neck and sighs against your collarbone and you’re not sure why but it makes you want to poke your knee through the gap in his legs, maybe, just to see what it feels like – but you don’t, you’re too scared to.

Instead, you move brave arms under his, to slide up his back and shoulders, to lock into place just where his shoulder blades are flexing gently. You forget how muscular he is, after usually seeing just his open, smiling face, hearing his soft words. It’s only when you catch glimpses of him in the shower or getting changed that you remember the thick, developing muscles – just like yours – rippling powerfully beneath bruised skin.

You feel so attracted to Marco right now and you hate it.

You have to ask him. About the other night, you have to, it’s driving you nuts and his fingers are pushed into the small of your back and his lips are grazing your collar bone, his hair smells earthy and completely wonderful and you hate it. You hate not knowing what the hell is going on.

“Marco,” you whisper. He stirs just a little. You hope you haven’t woken him.  
“Mm?”  
“Marco, I’ve gotta ask you something.” He pulls his head up out of your neck and it feels cold there, like you’re missing something. God, you wish you could see his face. Being in the dark makes everything so much more awkward.  
“What’s the matter, Jean?” You hesitate for a second, readjust your grip on his back clumsily. You feel his heart hammering on your chest.  
“The other night…” you start, sounding far less nervous than you actually are. Whatever you say next is probably going to impact your friendship one way or the other. It’s not that you value friendship, but Marco is one of the only idiots in this place you can trust. Losing that companionship would be a pain. “The other night, did you…”  
“Did I…?”  
“Did you kiss me?” you say breathlessly.

 

Marco shifts uncomfortably, probably looking sheepish. You kinda feel bad for bringing it up – it might have been some weird personal experience for him – but you have the right to know, you reason with yourself. He doesn’t say anything, just breathes heavily all over your hot cheeks. Your belly twists painfully.

“…You found out, huh?” he says. He sorta sounds choked up and you feel awful.  
“I was awake,” you say. Just that. Blunt as anything. Wow, what a dick.  
“Jean, please don’t get mad, I don’t really know why I did it…” he mumbles.  
“Why me, though?”  
“Can’t we forget about it, if I don’t do it again?” he suggests quietly. You don’t really like the sound of that, and by the melancholy in his voice, you can bet he doesn’t either. You bite your lip.  
“No. I… I need to know,” you utter.

A hand slips away from your back. At first, you’re not sure what he’s doing, but then you feel a soft palm on your cheek and his fingers pushed up through your hair a little so he is cradling the side of your face and it feels a little cheesy and a bit too romantic but you don’t dislike it, his hand is warm and it’s giving you the shivers – jerky, excited shivers that tingle in your limbs and core – and he inches his face close close close and he rests his forehead against yours and you flare up with panic because he is definitely about to kiss you and you have no idea what to do, or say, or how to kiss anybody oh god Marco’s already kissed you twice but not with you responding, how do you even respond to this, you’re terrified, your heart rate shoots up and your belly twinges with hot and cold excitement and you shiver some more and, and…

 

He doesn’t kiss you.

He sighs a breathy laugh onto your sweating skin and you’re still shaking, but he doesn’t kiss you, not this time. You hate that you feel so disappointed.

“I respect you a lot, Jean,” he breathes. Some stubborn child in you doesn’t want to hear about respect, it wants to hear about love. “I’ve always thought that you’d make a great soldier, a great leader. You’re skilled at using the manoeuvre gear, you’re sharp minded. Good at making decisions. I’ve always respected that…”  
“So?” you say. You’re impatient, this doesn’t explain a thing.  
“I suppose that respect turned into admiration at some point…” he says. He says it slowly, carefully, like he’s trying to pick the right words. “And maybe… maybe admiration turned into something else.” You feel your heart beating in your mouth and you want to say something but you can’t, you can’t think of anything worthy to say. “I’m sorry it happened to be you, Jean.”  
“Don’t be,” you say brashly. Ugh. You wish you thought before you spoke, maybe then you would stop sounding like such an ass.  
“That’s why I did it… It was just a little at first, I shouldn’t have gotten so carried away. I didn’t think you’d notice. You didn’t bring it up. I thought you would have hit me for it or something, you always speak your mind so… I-I just assumed you never noticed. Sorry,” he says. He sounds regretful so you pull him a little closer, forgetting about how near your faces are already, and you bump noses. You find yourself parting your mouth a little, just in case. You’re not brave enough to, but he might be.  
“It’s alright,” you breathe. You can sense the smile tugging at his lips and you want to, you want to kiss him even if you don’t know how. It’s taking all your strength not to.  
“The thing is, Jean…” he says, and you swear he’s stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. “You’re not exactly the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. And your stand offish attitude is off-putting and your personality leaves much to be desired.” You’re a bit taken aback but you can’t argue. “But I’ve been thinking about this for some time now and… Well, Jean, I think… I think I’m in love with you.”

Fuck.

To hell with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback is very much loved! New chapter will be up really soon so keep an eye out! :) <3


	3. Yes, This Is Happening And You're Strangely OK With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jean?” Marco breathes. “Did I do something wrong?”  
> “No, no,” you murmur. “I just… really don’t know what I’m doing.”  
> “Do you want to stop?”  
> “God, no. No, Marco, it feels really good,” you confess and you know he’s smiling that idiotic smile even though you can’t see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH WOW SO YOU GUYS REALLY LIKE THIS! :D I'm so so happy to have such lovely feedback from everyone, it makes writing worth the while. :3 This chapter is a little shorter than the others, it was originally part of the 2nd chapter but I wanted to make it a bit longer, so it gets its own chapter! ;)  
> I think I'll be doing just one more chapter after this, but I'm not sure when that will be up because I haven't written much of it yet.  
> Anyway, I hope you guys like! Enjoy! <3

You kiss him.

You kiss him on the damn mouth.

Your lips meet, hurriedly at first, fumbling, and it feels a bit weird and awkward but so much better than you were expecting. You’re so nervous because neither of you know what you’re doing, really, but it feels so good to finally have Marco’s mouth pushed up against yours, in yours; he must be startled because he makes this little sound in the back of his throat, which honestly makes you want to do whatever the hell you’re doing a lot more – his lips are warm and soft and although it’s weird to have the taste of another person’s saliva in your mouth, you can’t help but find the tang of his skin inexplicably pleasant. You’ve never kissed anyone before, not properly, so it’s sloppy and desperate and drooly, but once Marco has gotten over the shock of it, it seems like he has more experience than you do (which you admittedly feel sort of sore about) so he knows where to put his hands to guide your jaw into slowing down a little, how to play his fingers through the short hairs at the back of your head. You copy him, and some of the other couples that you see around, and shift your hand to his neck to feel his throbbing pulse– and then it occurs to you that you’re doing what couples do, you’re making out with Marco in his bed and it feels so unfamiliar but terribly exciting.

It comes as a surprise when he slides his tongue along your bottom lip. You gasp and pull away but you wish you hadn’t.

“Jean?” Marco breathes. “Did I do something wrong?”  
“No, no,” you murmur. “I just… really don’t know what I’m doing.”  
“Do you want to stop?”  
“God, no. No, Marco, it feels really good,” you confess and you know he’s smiling that idiotic smile even though you can’t see him. He presses his lips to yours, slower this time, more deliberate and careful. You can feel him open his mouth and you tentatively copy, letting his tongue into your mouth to slick over your teeth (which you sure you’ve accidentally bashed together once or twice already). You try to do the same thing but you can’t, opting to suck gingerly on his bottom lip instead – Marco pushes a hand up through your hair and grips tightly and you’re positive he just quietly moaned your name (which, although probably hugely egotistical, is the best thing you have ever heard), so you hope you’re doing the right thing.

 

It’s dark so you can’t see anything, but you can clumsily feel. You feel the heat and sweat and the delicate goose pimples on his arms, you feel his hands and knees always touching always brushing parts of your body, and though you’re trying your best to stay as silent as possible you can’t help but bite back gasps whenever you feel his fingers dancing on your skin. It’s pretty pathetic, but you’re breathless and blushing and sweating, and you wonder if he is as much of a mess as you are.

“Marco, I wish I could see your face,” you murmur.  
“Should I move?” he replies, pausing for a second, before untangling himself from you, pushing away the covers.  
“Uh…”  
“Here,” he says. You can hear the grin in his mouth.

Then, to your complete surprise, he straddles you with his head bent, presumably so as not to whack it on the bunk above him. It makes the bed creak a little, the movement, but no-one else in the barracks shows any signs of consciousness. Good, you think. You’d really hate to be interrupted. Weak streams of moon light through the tiny window illuminate the right half of his smiling face and then you’re pretty sure you’re in love too because you’ve never been so overwhelmed by just seeing a kid’s face. His hair is all mussed up, not in the lame curtains he insists on wearing, and his skin is all glistening and his freckles are lit up like speckles of silver embers.

“You’re really pretty,” you splutter and it’s so cliché but he just laughs breathily then rearranges himself on you, knees digging into your sides.

You think he tries to look like he knows what he’s doing but you can still feel his thighs shaking against you. Despite this, the pressure he’s putting on your hips is starting to feel alarmingly nice and when he tries to shuffle forwards the friction make you tip back your head and bite your lip; you tell him to be careful and he murmurs an apology. You’re sure he doesn’t do it on purpose though, because he is Saint Marco, freckled Jesus, but you’d be a liar if you said it wasn’t turning you on a little. You know getting up to anything too hot and heavy in here in the middle of the night is just a totally dumb idea – and honestly, you’re not so sure if you’re ready for that – but just the weight of him on you while he leans down again, chest to chest, is enough to stain your cheeks with pink heat. Pale moonlight allows you to make out his dumb glittery eyes and nervous grin for a split second before you feel an unexpected warm wetness on your neck, when you realise it’s his tongue and wow what is he doing, is he sucking your skin? Are those his teeth? Whatever he is doing, it feels odd but also pretty great and, coupled with the heavy pressure of his body right where it feels best, you can’t help but let out a low whine. It’s embarrassing but you’re probably past the point of caring.

 

He’s trailing kisses all across your collarbone now, shuffling away the collar of your night shirt to angle himself better, and you can’t do anything – pinned there – except bunch up the material of his shirt in your hands and try to steady your breathing that’s puffing into the cold air.

Is this really happening right now? Are you really letting him do this?

Shut up, you tell yourself. Shut up, because you kissed Marco first, not the other way around. Shut up, because his tongue is now sliding gingerly down your sternum as his fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt (not before shooting you a concerned glance and a mouthed ‘can I?’), and it feels good good good, so just shut up, you tell yourself, and enjoy it for once. You shut up and enjoy it.

Marco pulls away with a soft wet sound, lifts his head up so the tips of your noses just meet.

“Is this OK, Jean?” he murmurs and you all but roll your eyes at him and his dumb forehead and goofy smile. His lips are wet, you note, shimmering pale silver. You try and fail to ignore how good it looks on him.  
“Yeah, yeah,” you say impatiently, then more shyly add, “Keep… keep going.”  
“Here?”  
“Mm.”

Your eyes slip closed, and you kinda lose yourself… Marco’s mouth is sliding down, down and that’s the third button he’s undone and you’re really starting to wonder what exactly he has planned.  
“M-Marco…” you stutter, trying not to squirm. He shuffles back and you feel his tongue on your belly (inching downwards), and no… No, he wouldn’t. Surely not here (down, down, another button), surely not Saint Marco, freckled Jesus, surely not… “Hey, Marco, what are you do-”

 

Someone snores loudly and it frightens the both of you. Marco jumps up a little, his head narrowly missing the sturdy slats of the top bunk, and you jerk violently too, throwing him off you. Scrambling, he tumbles back next to you, tugs the thin sheets across your bodies, suppresses giggles.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea right now,” he whispers in your ear. His voice is hoarse and you like it.  
“N-No, I don’t want to stop just yet,” you blurt out. Great, you think, groaning inwardly at the foot perpetually shoved in your mouth. “I mean…”  
“Me neither,” he breathes, teeth tugging tenderly at your earlobe. It makes you curl your toes and shiver, and you’re certain he’s just messing with you now. You were gonna say something but the thought frazzles before you can verbalise anything. You ask yourself just how the hell he is doing this to you anyway. 

He holds onto your hand then. You’re not sure if you want him to at first, but you let him. His fingernails are blunt, fingertips slightly calloused, hands square, boyish, just like yours. His palms are sweaty, but warm, and you are secretly pleased that you were right about them, being warm. You gently feel the tendons rippling underneath his skin.

“Is this really OK?” you ask.  
“Are you OK with it?” he returns softly. He pulls you in to cradle you against him again, and you wonder where he learnt how to do all the right things.  
“I think so. Bit weird being touched by a guy,” you say. Bit weird you liking it. He laughs.  
“What does it even matter, really?”  
“I dunno,” you say. You’re sure he smiles just then, and you’re both quiet for a little bit.  
“I really like you, Jean,” he murmurs, after some time. It gives you butterflies and you feel like such a pansy; you kinda want to say it back, but you don’t think you can yet, so you press your hesitant lips to his cheek instead (or what you guess to be his cheek but might be his chin or jaw) because maybe that will suffice for now. You don’t suppose you’re any good at this, really, but your name is breathed into the crook of your neck again and that’s all you really need to hear. 

 

“I’d like to do this again. Properly,” he says softly.  
“On our own, you mean?”  
“Yeah… I-if you wanted. If that’s what you wanted…”  
“Mm…” is all you can manage. Then, “Where?”  
“The stables?” he says, and he says it as if he’s thought about it a lot. You raise a cynical eyebrow which is hidden in the dark.  
“Stables. Huh.”  
“It’s warm, secluded. No-one goes there at night. We’d be by ourselves at least…” You can’t see his face but his eyes are probably sparkling in anticipation, like an idiot.  
“With the horses,” you say flatly.  
“Hey, you’d be with your own kind,” he quips, and you smirk and go to butt him with your knee – but your hit is no good, so he just laughs quietly and you laugh too and he holds tighter onto your hand. You hold tighter onto his.

 

“If you come to not regret this in the morning,” he says, slowly, drifting off, in a tone that makes you want to not regret this in the morning. “Let’s do it again. Kissing you is a really nice thing to do.” 

You chew on your bottom lip and fizzles shoot though all your nerve endings. You still don’t know how you feel about everything, to be honest. You’re still struggling to believe you even let it get this far already. But it feels alright, it feels good, and who are you to deny that? 

“Sure,” you say with a sense of finality. “Yeah, sure.” You wish you had a bit more finesse, but his mouth pressing onto your skin somewhere and his hands slipping up your shirt again to hold you close to him let you know that is the right answer. You fall asleep wrapped up in his arms and shared warmth and it’s even better than last time, because he definitely kisses you on the back of your neck this time, and you’re awake for it and it feels amazing.

You don’t dream of Titans tonight, or pain or death or home or even Mikasa, like usual. You dream of Marco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support, let me know if you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading! <3


	4. Sleeping With The Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Admittedly, I thought I was dreaming when you came and slept in my bed. Sorry I got so ahead of myself… I guess I gave it away, huh?”  
> “If I’m honest, Marco,” you say, which you always are, “I’m sort of glad you did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW OK this is a monster of a chapter (5000-odd words??) and SORRY IT IS SO LATE! Like I mentioned, some mildly sexy stuff going on here, nothing too graphic. I'm too much of a ween to actually write porn.  
> This has been an absolute PLEASURE to write and all of the comments have been so, so wonderful, I am ever grateful of everyone's kind words and kudos! :D
> 
> Also. There will be a short bonus chapter. Please avoid it if you want fluffy cuddly JeanMarco babies to remain in your hearts forever, it's a bit tragic.
> 
> Until next time, enjoy! <3

Your shirt is open.

You forget about your shirt being left unbuttoned, and then last night floods back to you in a violent torrent that makes you push your face into your pillow and discreetly snap the buttons back together. Only the pillow smells so good and not like you, and in a dreamy daze you realise it’s Marco’s pillow and his flesh is no longer tangled up in yours. He’s in your bed again. You’re in his. It’s still warm behind you, so he must have only just crept away.

You sigh.

What the hell have you gotten yourself into?

 

You spend way too long in the shower that morning. Trainees are allowed 2 minutes each, 3 tops. You’re in there for at least 5. Remembering. Thinking. Thinking about the soap suds washing away traces of Marco’s mouth from your chest, washing away the muttered confessions, the kisses from your lips, his fingers from the small of your back, washing away his skin from your skin. You guess the showers are there to make you clean but you just feel bare instead.

Someone asks you if you’re jacking off in there and you tell them to fuck right off, but you think maybe that would have been more acceptable than thinking about how desperately you want to put your hands all over Marco Bodt.

 

You think about Marco a lot. Frankly it’s stressing you out. Marco. Marco, Marco, Marco, he’s always there, in your head, grinning and breathing and touching and kissing. “I think I’m in love with you,” shit, shit, shit.

Your focus slips more times than you would like to admit today. You even fall over. Trip over a damn tree root in the middle of a run, scuffing your hands on the gravel on the ground. It wouldn’t be so bad if Marco wasn’t there to see, but you fall on your ass and it’s his damn fault anyway because his hair is all sweaty and ruffled and stuck up like it was the night before and it makes him look adorable.

Adorable. 

Ugh, you think, screwing up your face. Adorable. Sweaty boys aren’t supposed to look adorable. Christa is adorable, hell, Mina is pretty cute (Mikasa is in a whole other league of gorgeous, of course) but Marco? Marco could be worse-looking and all but he isn’t supposed to look adorable.

He has the nerve to tell you that ‘you look a little tired today, Jean’. Flashes you a smile; only this time it isn’t all innocence, it’s a knowing smile and his freckled mug lights up and you tell yourself your knees go weak because you’ve just been on a 15K run, not because he grins at you, bites his lip like a complete idiot, then walks away.

 

It’s in the mess hall in the evening that the beautiful, exotic Mikasa brushes breezily past you (followed by that piece of shit with crazy eyes and the ever- trailing Armin), and she’s close enough you can (probably) nearly smell her sweet skin and usually this would get you pretty excited, pathetically enough, but instead you just feel antsy and frustrated. You steal a glance at Marco, fucking Marco, and he makes your belly flip, the sight of him and his hideous haircut and wide face and gentle eyes and soft, soft lips and it’s not until you’re both in bed past lights-out and you still can’t sleep despite how much you’re aching that you finally cave. 

Fuck it, absolutely fuck it, you need him.

You’re standing over his bed again, in a position that feels ridiculously familiar. “Marco,” you whisper against his neck. He stirs.  
“Jean?” he says dozily. “You wanna get in?”  
“Nah,” you say. “Not this time.”  
“What’s up?”  
“Let’s go check on the horses, yeah?”

 

The next few minutes is a blur of darkness and stumbling and restrained giggles and muttering and hand-holding, as you both pull on boots and scuttle out into the night, trying to avoid waking anyone else.

It is so freaking cold outside, you think the fingers not wrapped neatly in Marco’s palm are going to freeze up and fall off.

Marco has picked up a lamp on the way over to the heavy wooden doors (you don’t know how but you have a sneaking suspicion he’d prepared it beforehand), so soft light is thrown across the stable entrance when you creak through the door and bolt it behind you. You sigh and he laughs.

 

Marco was right about it being warm in here. The body heat of the huge animals is a welcome contrast to the bitter night air, one that you relish in. You briefly wonder if you should start sleeping among the horses. No, you decide – too much potential for mockery. Not that you care.

You half expect it to smell like shit in here, but it doesn’t, it just smells of hay. Earthy, a little dusty, but it smells like life. You feel alive.

Marco pulls you by the hand to sit on a large stack of hay bales in the corner, and a part of you starts to think this is a bad idea but seeing his smiling face flickering gold now (not silver) in the warm glow of the oil lamp you stole relaxes you a little. He places the lamp on the floor a little way away, and you mutter something about fire, but he doesn’t hear you. He sits cross-legged, like a child, and turns to you. You’d rather perch on the edge of the bale, honestly, but with a breathy laugh, he pulls you on too to copy his position. You don’t really try to resist him. 

In the dancing yellow light that’s playing soft shadows on his lips, you think about trying to kiss him again but you don’t yet. Not yet. You let yourself drink in the sight of his face a little more instead, finally being able to see more than what the moon lets you. He’s staring right back at you, honey eyes flicking back and forth. You wonder if he’s thinking about you too. You try not to make your eyes too scary but softening your face is difficult. Marco does it so well. Everything about you is angular, jerky, harsh. Your chin, eyes, elbows, hips, personality too. Marco is much softer but somehow sturdy. You like it about him. You like a lot of things about him really. You’ve got to stop telling yourself that you don’t – you’re a terrible liar anyway. 

“Jean, what’s with the angry face?” he whispers, jolting you awake.  
“What? What angry face?”  
“You’re glaring at me.”  
"I can’t help it," you grumble defensively. "My face is just like this.”  
“I think you’re quite handsome,” he says quietly, in earnest, and without skipping single a beat. You try to scoff but you just end up blushing instead.  
“Come off it, Marco, we’re both ugly as hell.”

He laughs then – how he always laughs, in that breathy way that makes your chest ache – and raises a nervous hand to your cheek. You don’t move, just watch him, his quietly concentrating eyes, the gentle curl of his smile. His knuckles brush your cheekbone and you kind of can’t help but shut your eyes because it feels so nice. His fingertips soft on your jaw, the pad of his thumb smearing slowly, ever-so-gingerly over your bottom lip. He’s so gentle, Marco; there’s something quite sensual about him. It’s gone unnoticed until now but being with him like this has made you realise it. You don’t think it’s a bad thing, really. A shaky breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding puffs onto Marco’s cheeks and maybe you’d feel a bit silly if it wasn’t for how wonderful his skin felt.

“I like it better in the light,” he murmurs and you open your eyes to see his face a little closer to yours, head tilted to one side.  
“Me too,” you breathe.

Marco presses his lips to yours again, achingly slowly, and you gently puzzle piece together almost as if you’ve done it a thousand times before. He leans forward to push you onto your back and you use your elbows to prop yourself up; the hay is kind of itchy underneath your shirt and you inwardly grimace at that fact that you’re doing this in the stables of all places – however, you like that Marco has taken initiative and most importantly, you trust him. You trust the soft smile in your mouth. You trust the hand sliding up your shirt. You trust the knee in between your thighs.

Speaking of which, it’s getting pretty hot between your thighs already and you’ve hardly started. You’re a little scared frankly. You can’t speak for Marco, but you’ve never done anything like this before, never even kissed a damn girl. You don’t touch yourself an awful lot either, and even then it’s just a hasty jerk in the showers to blow out some pent up frustration. His leg pushing into you is making you all kinds of nervous, but you find yourself subconsciously shifting your weight to put more pressure on instead of shrinking away, and you try to convince yourself that that’s only natural.

You wish the rough cotton of your pants was thicker though, you really don’t want to make it so obvious how worked up he’s getting you – especially when he’s so freaking calm.

“Hey,” you mumble into the corner of his mouth, coming across as far cockier than you feel. “Thought you were s’posed to be all angelic, Marco.”  
“Oh? What are you saying, Jean?” He smirks – damn well smirks – before you feel him shuffle down to kiss you just above your collar bone, nicking your skin with his teeth; you think about cracking a joke about trying to avoid being eaten but your mouth can’t form the words properly, so you just let out a strangled groan instead and ignore the straw scraping the back of your neck while you arch your body in a way that you hope will let you breathe better. It’s getting kind of warm in here. Your face has swelled with hot blood and other parts of you are well on their way too. 

 

“It’s so easy to make you all flustered,” he comments, innocently enough. But what a bastard he is, he’s pushing his knee against you and it’s definitely on purpose, shit, you can’t believe this is happening.  
“Shut up,” you mumble (both to yourself and to him), a knuckle clamped between your teeth. You think maybe your fist will stop any more weird sounds rising from your throat but it really doesn’t, Marco’s fingers are fiddling with the waistband of your too-thin military-grade pyjama pants, much, much too close and whoa – 

You inhale sharply and try to resist jerking your hips upwards, but it must have surprised Marco because you feel his fingertips leaving your skin.

“Are you sure you’re OK with this?” he asks suddenly. He gives you a second to catch the breath that hitched in your chest. Removing the knuckle from your mouth, you can’t help but feel a little disappointed that he stops so soon but at the same time kind of relieved because you would have had no idea what to do if Saint Marco started to mess around down there. 

It’s tingling all over your shoulder where he’s bitten you, and you vaguely worry about if a bruise will form. Then again, would you even care if it did?  


You stare up at the roof of the stables instead; watch the wooden beams flicker with golden light, breathing, breathing.

 

“I’m definitely OK with this,” you reply, at last. Marco’s face comes into view above you and he’s smiling with big brown eyes; his skin is glistening with sweat again and his dumb bangs have flopped over his giant-ass forehead and his freckles are inky stars splattered all over his face, and to be honest, you’ve never found him so absolutely beautiful. It kinda freaks you out a bit but you let it because although it’s weird, he’s close to you, and you like it. 

“We’re not going too fast?”  
“Nuh-uh.”  
“Sure?”  
“Yes, damnit. It’s good, Marco,” you breathe. He pushes your damp hair back from your forehead and it’s such a tender, loving motion that you feel a bit shaky. “It’s really good.” 

He blushes then, a proper deep pink blush – you sort of feel pleased it wasn’t you this time.  
“I’ve wanted to do this for so long…” he utters. He looks bashful. Coy almost.  
“How long?” you ask, genuinely curious.  
“Five… six months?”  
“Months?!”  
“Oh, yes,” he says quietly. “Admittedly, I thought I was dreaming when you came and slept in my bed. Sorry I got so ahead of myself… I guess I gave it away, huh?”  
“If I’m honest, Marco,” you say, which you always are, “I’m sort of glad you did.”

 

He cracks the biggest, dumbest-looking grin and god, he’s pretty, you wonder why the hell you never noticed it before. You lean up on your elbows again to get a better look at him, and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek as soon as you get near enough; you feel like such a little girl, blushing and smirking, and trying to make the most of the smell of him every time he’s close.

“Jean,” he sighs softly, hardly articulating the word so it just sounds like a part of his breath. It makes you completely melt.  
“God, Marco… You… you could have anyone,” you breathe. Then quietly add, “Why me?”  
He laughs then. “It doesn’t work like that,” he says.  
“What doesn’t?” you ask.  
“Falling in love,” he says. He smiles and you feel your cheeks and ears burn.  
“You were serious about that, huh?”  
“O-of course I was…” he says, his face suddenly dropping. “Did you not think I was serious?”  
“Well I- I thought it might have been some heat of the moment thing,” you mutter, trying to play it off. He shakes his head a little and it gives you a cold feeling in your gut.  
“Was it a heat of the moment thing for you?” he asks quietly. You regard him carefully, uncertainly.  
“Uh… kinda? Maybe? I guess so, pretty much, I mean… I hadn’t exactly planned on doing what we did, y’know?” Oh god, your foot is already half way down your throat and you can’t seem to stop yourself, why why why, this was going so well. “I… I’ve never felt that way about you, so…”  
“You’ve never felt that way about me?”  
“Well, not really. No,” you blurt before you can even think about it.

You watch his shoulders sink and his mouth part and his eyes droop and his eyebrows tilt in that sad way they do, and he pulls away from you to sit on his haunches looking totally dejected and that’s it, that’s the moment you fuck it up quite royally, you have ruined everything. You watch him in horror. 

“Oh.”  
“Hey, hey-” you begin, but you’ve already dug your own sorry grave.  
“Jean,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “If you never felt that way about me, we shouldn’t have done all this stuff… You should have told me to stop. I was under the impression that you sort of liked me back…”  
“No, that’s not what I meant!”  
“I get it, though,” he says. He’s smiling again, but it’s so obviously fake that it makes your gut wrench. “Military training isn’t really the place to be thinking about feelings and stuff, I know you have a lot on your mind. We all do. I g-” He pauses to swallow through the forced cheer and it hurts you in ways it shouldn’t. “I get it if you don’t want to do this anymore.”  
“M-Marco…” is all you manage and that just makes it worse because you can’t say the words you want to for once in your entire fucking life.  
“It was such a silly crush anyway,” he whispers - mostly to himself, you guess – followed by a sad smile. You feel sick. You feel itchy and weird and guilty because you always say the wrong things and he’s perfect and he says all the right things all the time and you’re being totally pathetic resisting this because all you really need is his laugh and his freckles and his closeness and your name dripping again and again from his smiling pink lips.

You lurch forward, yanking him too hard on the wrist, and pull him desperately towards you, throwing up bits of straw and dust. He garbles something you don’t quite make out but you don’t care, you just clutch him to your chest instead, holding him properly for the first time. His body is warm and breathing and trembling a little but alive and right here.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “Just shut the hell up.”  
“But…”  
“I dunno, alright? I don’t know what is going on, I’ve never been more confused in my life. Part of me sort of hates you for this, Marco, but the rest of me really doesn’t. I’m so… fuck. I like this, a lot. And maybe I shouldn’t but, god knows, I do. Whatever the hell it is. You’re so certain about all this emotion crap and I’m not, OK? Don’t make me feel guilty about it.” You come across far too angry and you feel him quivering beneath you like he’s 13 again despite the fact that he’s both taller and broader than you are. You don’t let go though. You don’t ever really want to let go.  
“Jean,” he mumbles into your shirt. “Please don’t get mad.”  
“I’m not mad,” you sigh. “I don’t know what I feel. All I know is that I just…” For once, being brutally honest has suddenly become much too hard, so you shuffle your head into his shoulder as if it will make a difference. He smells amazing. “I just need you.”

 

It’s quiet for too long and you begin to get anxious. You sit up, sigh heavily, don’t let go of him.

“You’ve got me,” he says quietly after some time. His grip on you tightens and you relax a bit.

You’d like to think you were the one holding onto him, but it become apparent as he rocks you gently back and forth on that damn hay bale with his warm, sturdy arms around your back that he is pretty much the one holding you. He adjusts himself so he’s practically sat on your lap even though you’re sitting upright too. His gangly knees are poking into your side again. 

 

“Thanks, Marco,” you mumble, and you’re not even sure why but it seems like the appropriate thing to say now he’s whispering gentle kisses into your hair and your mouth is brushing the crook of his neck. “Didn’t mean to snap.” It’s a crappy apology but it’ll do, you suppose. 

“It’s alright,” he says. It’s quiet for a little bit longer, just the rush of your breath filling the air. You start getting a little uncomfortable with the way he’s sat right on you. You even feel your legs starting to go numb, but he doesn’t move. So, with a soft noise that’s not entirely on purpose, you stretch out your legs then arch them again to angle yourself better. He follows by wrapping his legs around your back and you almost feel comical were it not for the fact that he’s sunk down in the gap between your thighs to press right into you. The air slips from your throat at the contact.

“Whoa there,” you stutter, throwing your arms back to steady yourself. The straw is coarse against your palms. Marco slings his elbows around your neck, pushes you both closer together. You don’t mean to, but you begin to shake – are your arms even going to hold out at this rate? He clutches himself tighter to you, rubs the back of your neck in slow circles, almost soothingly, before shifting his body into you again, kinda jerkily. Sharply. And at a perfect, seemingly well-practised angle. “Whoa, whoa,” you murmur (trying to be steady but failing desperately so) as your stomach clenches and hips buck a little; he makes the most glorious sighing sound you’ve ever heard, and you have to bite at your lip to try and keep your damn head clear. He doesn’t seem so much like Saint Marco anymore and, pleased with the way your name is tumbling from his lips now (you narcissistic bastard), you begin gain a little confidence. 

Balancing on one quivering arm, you slide the other up his shirt – you want to go for his chest, to feel his ribcage and pounding heart, but the position is much too awkward with how close are already, so you settle for his waist instead. You’re tender about it, just like he was, and for all the bumping of hips you’re going for (which is honestly making you lose your mind a little with the constant jittery shivers running through your body), you take the time to run fingertips along the slightly puffy bruises and rough grazes you feel along his sweaty skin. He’s gasping into your ear, something you can’t make out but it sounds good anyway, so you whine softly into his neck and kiss his collarbone (or whatever skin you can get to), like he did to you. It made you feel good when he did it; you’re not sure why, but suddenly, you want to do anything you can to make him feel good too. You’re swept up in some kind of earthy, dusty desire, and you begin to rut against him with a sliver more certainty than before, just to feel his panting breaths on your shoulder. You’re getting far too hot now, and you think it would be the perfect opportunity to tear off the sticky night shirt from your chest were you both not already pretty preoccupied staying balanced and-

Whoa, you didn’t mean to push up your pelvis that hard. 

“Jean!”  
“Y’alright?” you slur – you can feel him shivering against you, and it makes you worry for a second.  
“Mmm,” he hums in return. “Please don’t… please don’t stop doing that.” 

It’s definitely the breathy way he says it that urges you to keep rolling your hips upwards despite how much your legs and arms are aching with trying to maintain your balance. You guess you’re trying to be sort of rhythmic and slow about it but the erraticism in your movements clearly exposes your inexperience. You bet Marco would be better at jamming his hips into your groin instead, but you’re sort of enjoying being the one to take charge. For once in this entire escapade.

You’re so lost in your own musings and constant tremors of pleasure every time you move like that in unison, that you don’t notice Marco pawing at your shirt.

“Please,” he chokes out. You watch him tip his head back to reveal his flushed throat, the tiny ridges of his windpipe, his neat Adam’s apple. You hate to say that it takes your breath away, but it does.  
“Please what?”  
“Ah, Jean- P-please.”  
“What’s wrong, am I doing this wrong?”  
“No, your hand…”  
“My hand?”

 

You’re surprised by how strong he is (although you guess you shouldn’t be) when he falls back onto his palms and yanks your wrist away from his waist. Some of the strain of keeping you both upright has been alleviated now he’s angled himself better and you’re a little relieved, you guess, but you flare back up into panic mode when Marco – beautiful, sweet, angelic Marco – pushes your very own hand right into his pants and gasps another broken ‘please’.

You cannot in a thousand years possibly begin to believe this is happening. 

But it is.

 

Your heart rate surges upwards and before you know it, your trembling fingers move completely on instinct in that familiar jerky up-and-down until everything is a blur of hotness and hardness and wetness and gasps and fractured moans (regrettably from the both of you) and it’s only when he tells you to slow down, when he mumbles a raspy "I-I'm gonna-", when he’s back at your shoulder again, muscles all taut and shuddering fitfully against you, that you realise exactly what you’ve just done to Marco Bodt.

“Je- Oh, oh my goodness,” he stammers, and you sort of want to laugh because Marco is the only person in the whole world who would say ‘oh my goodness’ after you’re done getting him off. You watch him tumble back, tearing away from you, panting still. You’re shivering and you feel like a damn idiot too because all you can do is sit very still and stare at your cramping hand all slick with…

“Oh my god, Marco,” you breathe. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to…”  
He laughs an exhausted laugh and tells you to “Shut up, that was perfect,” and you know he’s a goddamn liar because even you can tell that it was the most piss-poor handjob in the history of mankind.  
“I shoulda been more gentle, I didn’t mean to get it everywhere and- Y-you’re a mess, Marco…” you babble. You can’t take your eyes off your hand – you flex your fingers gently like it’s some foreign object.  
“So are you,” he teases kind-heartedly, sitting up on his elbows. How is he so composed anyway? You’re astounded (and frankly, impressed) by how easily he can switch from trembling baby bird to Mr. Confident-And-Subtly-Flirtatious in a matter of seconds - especially when he just... And you just... “You’re glaring at your hand, Jean,” he says. You feel more heat rising in your cheeks and you curse yourself – you’ve been blushing way too much tonight, you feel sort of pathetic about it.  
“What should I do with…?” you ask, waving around your palm. You can hardly bring yourself to finish your own sentences. It’s dribbling in between your fingers now and the sensation isn’t the least bit unpleasant.  
“Just wipe it somewhere, we can deal with it in the morning,” he says softly. In the heat of things you forget how actually just completely nice Marco is. You decide to brusquely rub your palm semi-clean on your pyjama pants. Your skin is still a little sticky but you can cope, you think. 

He sits up and you shuffle closer, Marco immediately leaning in for a kiss. You’re glad for kisses. Not that you didn’t like what you just did, but you’re kind of overwhelmed by it all. You can feel a lump in your throat. God, you hope you don’t start crying. You’ve heard about boys who cry after sex from the other guys during bawdy late-night discussions, and he hasn’t even done anything to you yet – he’s hardly touched you. That would be mortifying. Marco’s gentle voice in your ear rouses you from your reverie.

“Hey, Jean?” he whispers. “Do you want me to, uh-?” He gestures with the smallest of nods towards your lower half and you’re not sure you can take much more of this in one go, it’s kind of shaken you up. Marco does that to you. Shakes you up.  
“Maybe another night,” you reply bravely in an unintentionally husky voice, and he smiles with stupid, sparkling eyes.  
“Alright,” he says.

 

You sit locked together for a little longer, kissing lazily until it becomes sort of relaxing. The passion has gone but the affection is still warming your chest, making you feel all light. Speaking of light, though, you vaguely notice the flame in the oil lamp beginning to dull (how long have you been in here anyway?) and you briefly wonder if you’ll need to spend the entire night in the stables. You don’t think you could face traipsing back to the freezing barracks. Back to your freezing bed.

He pulls away to look into your eyes and he is utterly gorgeous, baby-cheeks and forehead and dumb freckles and all. You flicker him a smile and he returns it.

“I’d die for you, Jean,” he says softly, all of a sudden, the gentle conviction in his voice almost scaring you.

You stop short, stare at him. Stare right at him. It’s a brave and noble gesture, sure, and you’re positive you can see the halo glowing gold around his head, but something about the prospect makes your blood run cold.  
“Marco,” you say seriously. Still staring, backing off a little. You feel how unsteady your voice is, and he does too because he drops his smile. “You should never, ever want to die for anyone. Don’t play the martyr,” you whisper, as if you’d even know what it’s like. “It’s not worth it.” Perhaps it’s a selfish thing to say, but you’re a selfish person.  
“But…” he says weakly.  
“Live instead,” you insist, sounding uncharacteristically profound. “Live... live for me instead. Don’t die, Marco. Don’t.”

He looks at you long and hard, brown eyes shining and wide – almost in awe. Your chest swells with something dangerously close to pride because he’s always, always the one giving the advice, not the other way around. 

He nods then. “OK, Jean,” he breathes, closing his eyes, pressing raw pink lips to your ear. You suppose he does this with perfectly innocent intentions but it’s still so accidentally sensual that it doesn’t fail to give you jitters. 

You’re both far too hot now, so you flop onto your backs – far enough apart to be able to inhale your own air, but close enough to brush shoulders and press palms together. You breathe. Chest rising and falling steadily, just like the heavy snuffling of the animals a short distance away; you sense Marco’s ribcage pushing against you slightly and your pulse throbbing at your neck and it’s good, you decide, it’s good to feel alive.

Comfortable silence follows. You guess he’s lost in his own thoughts so you let your mind wander as well while tracing the grain of the beams on the ceiling.

 

You like to pretend you’re all grown-ups, you think; big, bad soldiers with scars and nasty glares and chips on your shoulders. But really, you’re just children masquerading as adults, you’re lost little boys and girls fumbling your way through some grim, vast darkness and lately you’ve become all too aware of this fact. But there’s something about Marco, something about his warmth and grace and smile that makes you forget it all for just a moment, makes it all OK.

Being a little brave, you pull him in by his waist to cradle him against you like he did the first night, and you’re kind of glad he sighs gently and shuffles into you. There’s straw riding up your shirt and jabbing at the inside of your ear and you’re nearly 100% sure Marco couldn’t have picked a more uncomfortable spot to do this – but you carefully snake your arms around his chest, to feel his beating heart against your wrist, and you think maybe it’s not so bad. You press your lips to his neck this time, shaking just a little.

“I can’t lose you, Marco,” you say firmly. You don’t know what good it will do, but it feels good to say it anyway.  
“You won’t,” he says softly. “I promise.”


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hey... Marco?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO THIS IS A LITTLE BONUS I DECIDED TO TACK ON THE END
> 
> Please don't read if you want all the fluffiness to remain intact, this will kind of put a downer on that. ;)
> 
> Enjoy at your own risk! <3

The moment you see it, you feel the entire world plummeting through your stomach. It claws the breath right from your throat.

You stare, shaking. You stare at the mangled remains of a man slumped carelessly against a wall and you can barely dare to call it a body anymore; eyes hollow, lips pulled away from teeth to reveal pallid pink gums, hair matted thick with old blood, skin torn away from the side of his face that was never hit by pale moonlight when you kissed him silently where you slept. Blue-white splintered bones jut out his body in ugly places, and it’s all slathered in a mess of blood – but it isn’t crimson anymore, it’s slick, sickening black.

His sunken cheeks are splattered with dark rust freckles and it is the foulest sight you have ever seen. All you can think about is finding somewhere to wretch and just one phrase races in your mind until you want to vomit the words:

 

Marco broke his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your love and support guys, this is probably the biggest fan fiction project I have ever written, and it has been completely wonderful!
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any comments or feedback or anything would be loved greatly! :)


End file.
